


The Illustrious Fells

by asuralucier



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Behavior, Creepy Family, F/F, F/M, Loss of Identity, Non-Linear Narrative, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22636189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Martina Fell has a lot to learn from her new parents, the illustrious Dr. Martin Fell, and the beautiful Lydia.(Canon Divergent AU: the one where Abigail ends up in Italy in S3.)
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Abigail Hobbs, Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	The Illustrious Fells

**Author's Note:**

  * For [humanveil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/gifts).



> A huge thank you to ictus! This wouldn't be what it is without you!

When the scalding water in the large tub first touched her skin, Martina--Abigail--Martina--she still forgot sometimes--recoiled and winced. “It’s too hot.” 

“You’ll get used to it, sweetheart,” said her mother, Lydia Fell. “I did. Do you want any help? Here, take my hand. I will keep you steady.”

Martina took her mother’s hand without protest for the second time and Lydia didn’t let go of her until she was completely submerged in the water. There was something unnatural about her mother’s hands, as if they didn’t really belong to her. They barely seemed to belong to a wife, either. Her mother wore a lovely white gold ring with a blood red ruby. Lydia saw Martina looking at it and smiled.

(Once upon a time, there was a girl named Abigail Hobbs and she had a mother. Louise. Everything about her, but especially the layer of middle-aged fat around her belly and her rough working hands, said that Louise was a mother.) 

Lydia and her husband liked to joke that Martina was conceived in a test tube. She said, “Maybe it will be yours one day, Martina. When you marry. The ring belonged to your father’s sister. It’d be nice to keep it in the family. Would you like to try it on?”

Martina nodded. 

Martina was named for her father, Dr. Martin Fell, who was a well-respected curator at the Palazzo Capponi. Her father was being honored tonight at a banquet, which was why Lydia insisted that she have a proper bath. Later, they’d go shopping in order to dress to impress. Dr. Fell knew a lot of important people. This was to be Martina’s proper debut to her parents’ social circle here in Florence (Firenze). Martina had been studying abroad until now, at a small yet prestigious women’s college in New England. Martina enjoyed poetry and long walks in the woods in a town that barely peaked over fifteen thousand people during the academic year. 

Martina was still adjusting to the fast pace of Firenze, chock full of tourists and old history, a recipe for imminent chaos. If Firenze was considered sleepy, then Bennington, where she’d been, was in a persistent vegetative state. Once, when the outside made her dizzy, her mother opined that had they ended up in a bigger city like Roma or Milano, Martina probably would have suffered more for it. 

As such, Martina never went out without her mother, and even then, only for small excursions, like lunch at Lydia’s favorite café where she would insist that Martina practice her Italian. _Buongiorno, un caffè liscio per favore. Grazie mille._

Lydia removed her ring and took great care to dry each of Martina’s fingers with a towel before slipping it on Martina’s ring finger. Lydia nodded approvingly at the result, although the ring was loose on Martina’s finger. “A perfect fit, my darling. Red is absolutely your color.” 

Martina thought so too. She still saw red a lot of the time, when she closed her eyes. Given time, she thought it could become her favorite color, especially if her mother said it suited her. 

A silver medical bracelet hung around Abigail’s wrist when she was at home to remind her who she was. It told her everything she knew about herself in intricately engraved letters. 

_FELL, MARTINA B._  
_DOB: 01061995._  
_AB POSITIVE_

“What does the B. stand for?” Abigail asked Hannibal, who was seated at the heavy antique desk he’d acquired for his study. When he left the door open, it meant he was happy to be disturbed either by his wife or daughter. Abigail--Martina decided to take him at his word. 

“Anything you would like, Abigail,” Hannibal said, waving her inside. “Come, sit with me.” 

She did, taking the other chair in the study, but before she sat, she dragged it across the room next to the desk so she felt more like Martina Fell rather than one of Hannibal’s patients. Not that Martin Fell was a medical doctor. 

Inhabiting another name, another body, was uncomfortable. Abigail was too conscious all the time, of how Martina walked and talked. Sometimes she felt close to her, other times, she didn’t. But at least it didn’t hurt. 

“My name is Martina,” Abigail told him. “You always get me mixed up.” 

“So I do.” Hannibal smiled at her approvingly. “I forget things. It drives your mother mad. I’m sorry, Martina. I do apologize. From the bottom of my heart.” 

Lydia sat behind Martina in the tub while she got used to the temperature of the water and brushed her hair with a fine-toothed comb. Martina felt every careful scrape against her scalp and found it almost calming. 

“Darling, you have such luxurious hair,” her mother murmured, nearly regretfully. “I’m almost sorry it has to change.” 

“It wasn’t always. My hair used to fall out a lot from stress,” Martina said. “It’s only now. That.” 

“Martina.” This time, when her mother spoke her name, there was something sharp underneath the calm of her voice. “Why did your hair used to fall out?” 

“Stress,” Martina repeated, “from school. I’m glad to be here now.” 

“I’m glad too. Your father and I miss you very much when you’re not around, Martina.” It was the right thing to say, because Lydia let it go. She also let go of Martina’s beautiful, dark luxurious hair and Martina almost flinched when she heard the smart snap of latex gloves.

“Your hair is so dark, we might have to dye it several times, sweetheart.” Lydia began working dye into Martina’s hair and the strong smell of ammonia filled her nose. While her mother didn’t have motherly hands, they were gentle and clever. 

Martina breathed in deeply and closed her eyes. “As long as you don’t mind, Mother. Thank you for helping me. _Grazie mille_.” 

The first time Martina B. Fell laid eyes on her mother, Lydia Fell was wearing four-inch-heels and a snug blue cocktail dress, a parody of motherhood. She was also ladling hot soup into a wide rimmed bowl. “The time difference made you dizzy, didn’t it? It will get better over time, I promise.” 

Abigail pressed her thumb against a freshly covered puncture in the crook of her elbow. Something in her bloodstream made her sluggish, as if she was moving through water. But otherwise she felt fine, and even felt a little hungry. 

“You’re Bedelia DuMaurier.” Bedelia’s name had a lot of syllables and Abigail nearly tripped over all of them. “Will said--” 

“Darling,” the woman came to her and took Abigail in her arms. “My name is Lydia Fell. This is all your father’s fault. He’s always forgetting. You must be starving.” She patted the top of Abigail’s head, as if soothing an injured, confused animal. Abigail--Martina took a deep breath and let the scent of her mother’s perfume wash over her. 

Then again, “Mother” was a lot easier to say than “Bedelia DuMaurier.” Martina tried again, “Yes, Mother. I’m starving.” She didn’t stutter at all. 

It turned out that Lydia Fell was terrible in the kitchen; she didn’t want to ruin her hands. Dr. Fell was the true chef of the Fell household, but nowadays, the Palazzo Capponi demanded more and more of his attention. Even though the Fells lived just around the corner from one of the best restaurants in the city, Lydia admitted she sometimes still missed Martin’s cooking. 

“We look like sisters,” Lydia said. 

Martina looked at herself in the mirror. She touched the edge of her new blonde hair. Blonde was not really her color. But it was just another thing to get used to, and she was getting better at that every day. 

“Now, give me a kiss.” 

They’d moved from the bathroom to Lydia’s boudoir, where her mother insisted Martina sit very still while she applied foundation, blush, mascara, and finally, dark red lipstick. It felt sticky as Martina tried to form a kiss, puckering up her mouth. 

“Good girl,” Lydia said. “ _Andiamo_. Go put on your coat and shoes.” 

Dr. Martin Fell was not a jealous man. In fact, he once said that he quite enjoyed it when people stared at his wife. Martina stared too. Her mother said that the best way to know a city was on foot. Firenze was a walking city, and apparently where they were going wasn’t too far from the apartment. 

“You keep looking at me, darling,” Lydia said, nudging her gently. “Is anything the matter? Something between my teeth?” 

Firenze was busy and loud. It was miles away from the stern quiet of the Fells’ apartment. There was a policeman standing at a crowded crosswalk. As he gestured that they should follow the flow of human traffic across the street, Martina reached for her mother’s arm. “No. You’re perfect. Your teeth are perfect.” 

For the second time that day, Martina stood naked in front of her mother. They were in a large private dressing room, and someone had come by with a bottle of Prosecco and a rack of clothing, everything from underwear to evening wear. Lydia explained that she’d called ahead and made an appointment. It was one of those stores that never opened unless you called ahead and were the right sort of person. Being the wife of a curator at the Palazzo Capponi meant that Lydia was. When the clerk heard exactly what the occasion was, she wanted to help. Lydia said very sweetly that if she wanted to help, then she’d leave them alone, _per favore_. 

And now they were alone. 

Her mother looked at her up and down. “Darling, are you self-conscious about your breasts?” 

Lydia Fell was far from a stupid woman. But in the public eye and sometimes at home too, she deferred to the intellect of her husband. She liked to say Hannibal was forgetful, but sometimes, because she was comfortable around Abigail, she became Dr. DuMaurier again without realizing it. _Tell me your deepest fears and insecurities. I’m here to help you. I will help you like yourself. I will help make you happy._

Martina looked down at her breasts. Then she looked at Lydia and wondered what the right answer was. When she didn’t speak, Lydia set down her glass of Prosecco and stood. She cupped Martina’s breast, her palm surprisingly warm. 

Martina made a small sound, a sigh. “Is that why we’re shopping for underwear, too? So I could feel less self-conscious about my breasts? We’re going to Dr. Fell’s banquet, it’s not as if my clothes are going to fall off while we’re having antipasti.” That sounded too much like Abigail Hobbs. Martina was learning not to question her mother. 

But this made her mother laugh, a sparkling sound like the Prosecco they were drinking out of oppressively clean glasses. “But they could. A woman is in imminent danger of being naked at all times, Martina.” 

Imminent nakedness didn’t seem to bother her mother. Her own neckline was invitingly low, accentuated with a small gold pendant hung around a thin chain. Martina imagined claiming some of that nakedness with her mouth. Maybe other people looked at her mother, but Martina was the one that got to be alone with her. 

“You’re doing this to help me?” 

“Why else would I do anything?” her mother said, almost reprovingly but not quite. She leaned in and pressed her lips, even warmer than her hands, above the gentle splay of her fingers near Martina’s nipple. Martina made another noise, drifting in between a sigh and a small moan. She arched into the touch and felt the curve of Lydia’s smile against her skin. 

“Should I be, Mother? Be self-conscious about my breasts, I mean.” 

“No my darling, of course not,” Lydia kissed her all over her body, over her breast, licking over her clavicle, tracing her pulse under her jaw. Then she kissed Martina on her mouth, but very lightly, as not to smear her lipstick. “I think you have a wonderful body. I think you’re perfect too.” 

“B. stands for Beatrice.” Abigail stood in the doorway of the study. Hannibal was reading a hefty tome on Baroque architecture. It was not Dr. Martin Fell’s area of expertise, but naturally, he was a voracious reader. 

He looked up at her, but didn’t invite her to sit down. 

“Beatrice,” Martina said, using the clear, crisp Italian pronunciation rather than anything else, “means ‘she who makes happy.’ Someone who brings joy.” 

“I think that name suits you tremendously.” Hannibal smiled. “You do make your mother so very happy.” 

Dr. Martin Fell was the man of the hour. Although he was polite and unwaveringly cordial with everyone who came up to congratulate him on his success, it was clear to Martina that there was a layer of very flexible plastic between her father and everyone else. 

The entrance of Lydia and Martina Fell hardly went unnoticed. Dr. Fell saw them and waved them over right away. First, Dr. Fell kissed his wife primly on the back of her hand, and then he kissed his daughter on her temple. 

To Martina, Dr. Fell said, “Your mother must have picked this out for you.” Martina was wearing a red dress that stopped a few inches above her knees, but not so much as to be immodest. While her mother wanted to make sure that Martina now knew about the dangers of imminent nakedness, she wanted to protect her too. 

Lydia prompted her husband, “Red’s her color, Martin, don’t you think?” 

Dr. Fell said, “Yes, of course.” 

Someone else, standing close to Dr. Fell, looked all three of them over. He said, appearing only slightly jealous, “The illustrious Fells. All together again. Are you enjoying Firenze, Martina?” 

Her mother put her arm around her, and Martina smelled her perfume; she didn’t just breathe it in this time, it washed over the entirety of her body and made her warm. Martina said, demurring, “It is very different from New England. My mother’s been a great help to me. She’s very strict about me practicing my Italian. I want to fit right in.” 

“And you will. Your mother knows best.” Dr. Fell nodded. He gestured expansively towards the other side of the decorated hall. “I delayed sampling the buffet because I wanted to wait for you, Martina, Lydia. They say this caterer’s to die for.”


End file.
